I'll Never Find Another You

So it was him after all, Margie realized with a shock.  It wasn’t just her imagination.  There at the information counter, not twenty feet away from her, dressed in a charcoal-grey three-piece suit, berating the young, newly-hired receptionist as the entire office looked on, was the one man Margie dreaded meeting from the time she transferred to Washington.   A few pounds around the waist and a few furrows on his brow were the only physical differences she could tell. But that tone! 

“And just how do you determine proficiency in Czechoslovakian?” he demanded of the now-terrified receptionist.

“How do we determine?”

“That’s what I said, how do you determine if someone is proficient in Czechoslovakian?”

“Well, I she said, eyes downcast. guess they give them a test”

“In Czechoslovakian.”

“I guess so..  Are you applying for a translator’s position?”

“No, young lady, I am a Deputy Secretary of State. I do not think I will be applying for a translator’s position.  Might I see a copy of this language proficiency test in Czechoslovakian?”

“I - don’t think we have one here, sir.”

“I don’t think you have one either.  And do you know why?”

“No, sir,” the clerk relied meekly.

“Because,” he suddenly slammed down the palm of his hand on the counter with a vehemence that startled everyone, “THERE IS NO SUCH LANGUAGE AS CZECHOSLOVAKIAN!”

“B-but what d-do they speak in Czechoslovakia?”

“The Czechs speak Czech. The Slovaks speak Slovak.  The Germans speak German, the Hungarians speak Hungarian, the Gypsies speak Romany, and don’t forget several divisions of Soviet occupation forces who speak Russian!  Now, may I assume that the vacancy announcement will be corrected and reissued?”

“I’ll have to speak to my supervisor about it.”

“Why don’t you ask her in Czechoslovakian?” He let out an exasperated sigh and muttered “What’s the use?” as he threw his hands into the air and stormed out of the office.

Margie knew when she first accepted the promotion that she would be in the same town with him.  She also knew that she and Bobby needed the money, but even more, that Bobby needed a new life as far away from Miami and his druggie friends as they could get.  She couldn’t just think of herself.  (That was a familiar enough refrain in her life.)

Besides, what were the odds?  Washington is a big city, she told herself.  He could be working anywhere, on Capitol Hill, some law firm, maybe even the White House staff itself, now that his hero was there.  So six months ago she did the right thing, the responsible thing, packed up her few material possessions and headed north.

The odds?  Stacked against her as always, she thought.  If he didn’t recognize her this time, (she didn’t dare look up from her desk for fear of eye contact), he will next time, or the next. Perhaps he has forgotten all about her in this new, successful life of his.  Or maybe he remembers, but after all these years he has forgiven her in his heart. 

No, she reminded herself, I’ve never forgotten, or forgiven myself.

“He” of course was Leslie Andrew Kovacs, Jr.  Margie silently mouthed every syllable of that name slowly as if savoring it. That surname could have been, and in a sane world should have been, her own. The memories, against which she had held fast the gate of her mind for so long,  forced their way through, and she was powerless now to forbid them . . .